Brave the Storm
by Clandestine-Assassin
Summary: Three years have passed since the Stormcloaks won the civil war, and Ulfric finds himself restless. He travels with Galmar, whom he has been in a relationship with for years, to raid Imperial camps, and is badly injured in battle. With neither of them trusting magic to heal him, Galmar is tasked with finding a non-magical method of healing Ulfric's crippling wounds. Kinkmeme fill.
1. Chapter 1

Galmar hated Rain's Hand. The month, true to its name, was filled with storms. Gray clouds filled the skies, with partially frozen tears falling down to the ground. The snow, which blanketed the country in white during colder months, was turned to brown slush and served the sole purpose of soaking boots and numbing toes. Razor-like winds tore through layers of hide and steel, chilling even the hardiest of Nords with a sense of dank misery. He had seen soldiers' feet become blackened and rotted from the excessive rain during wartime, and those very same men lose their appendage as a result.

The old bear sighed deeply, and rubbed his eyes with a gloved hand. After so many years playing at war, he could honestly say that he desired nothing more than a rest. He couldn't help but glance at the bedroll, which rested so comfortably in the tent's corner. Wolf pelts lined the feeble mattress, enough for two to fit in comfortably.

Footsteps approached his tent, and Galmar looked up to see the delighted, soaked face of his jarl. Galmar's smile shadowed that of Ulfric's. There was perhaps _one_ thing he desired above a nap. This was neither the time nor the place for such thoughts, however.

"Galmar," Ulfric grinned. His housecarl swore that he could hear the smile in his voice, the same goofy, slightly bucktoothed smile that he had known so well in their youth. His jarl, who had been trapped inside of his palace for the past three years while Galmar had been commanding the front lines, looked like a child in a candy store. It was the first time since their victory in Solitude two years prior that Ulfric had gone out with the men to raid, and by the Gods was he loving it.

"Ulfric," The old bear responded, the smirk never leaving his lips, " You look awfully happy for being soaked to your small clothes."

"Bah," The Nord shook his head, sending droplets of ice rain onto the other man, "I am Stormcloak, am I not? Do you not think it's fitting that I go raiding under the cloak of a storm? It hides our presence, the rain's as much armor as our men's steel."

A half-hearted laugh escaped the housecarl's lips as he returned to studying maps, "Everything is like a fairytale with you around. Why are you in here, Ulfric?"

"I thought I would grace a sour old bear with my presence," He responded with a playful grin. They both knew that if any of the men could see their interactions, they might just soil themselves . The normally dour and serious Bear of Markarth cherished the small moments of laxity, where he could be himself, and forget, if only for a few minutes, that he didn't balance Skyrim on his shoulders.

"Well, then color me flattered," The grizzled warrior glanced at Ulfric, "While you're in here, why don't you make yourself useful?" He nodded to the maps, "Come here, we can talk strategy." 

"Just like the good old days," The blonde Nord mumbled before walking to Galmar's side, and looking over the parchment. It was a fairly detailed map of the Pale, with countless markings scratched in. It had taken a beating during their two days' ride to the camp, with a few lines smudged or faded, and small tears around the edges.

Galmar pointed to an illustration of an old fort, "Here, near the southern tower, the scouts have reported that some of the wood beams are rotten and weak. They say that a well aimed spell or a warhammer could tear through it easily."

"And we have soldiers who can perform these tasks?"

"Aye," Galmar nodded, "Mages are useful, I try not to go into battle without at least one. There's a lass here who's good with fire, she'll be able to take it down. If we can _make_ an entrance, it will be loud, and the fort is guaranteed to notice."

"Wouldn't we want to avoid that?" Ulfric frowned, "All of our troops piling in through one entrance?"

A sly smile formed on the housecarl's lips, "It won't be _all_ of our troops, only enough warriors to draw attention, and the mage," He tapped the other tower, "This tower, the northern one, is right near a blind hill. We can sneak up while they cause a distraction, and tear our way through. We'll flank them, have the element of surprise, and they'll be completely unprepared."

"But what about the rain?" Ulfric frowned.

"What about the rain?" He repeated with a furrowed brow.

"If our men are charging up the hill, won't they slip?" He pointed out, nodding to the storm outside the tent, "I don't think they could do more than trot without falling on their face in this weather.

"Hm," Galmar grunted, "You got me there, what are you thinking?"

"I don't think that the mage can be too useful, not with this weather. She's a fire mage, and it's been raining for days."

"What do you suggest then? That we walk through the front door?"

Ulfric smiled at his friend, "In part," He glanced back toward the camp, where some of their men were eating their supper, "I noticed that there's a wood elf in our party."

"Aye, one of the archers. I was as surprised as you were. What of it?"

"I remember he mentioned that he's from Valenwood, which means he can climb." The Nord tapped the northern tower, "He could scale the tower, and pick off soldiers with arrows. Confusion and panic will erupt, men looking for the source of the arrows while trying to shield themselves. While they're distracted, we storm in through the gates."

"You think one lone archer can cause that much confusion?" Galmar frowned, "An elven one, at that? Besides, you said it yourself, it's wet. What if he falls?"

"A Stormcloak rises after the fall."

"If you really want to put _that_ much faith in him… You're the jarl here, not me," The old bear simply shook his head, "I swear, your fantasies will be the death of us," He mumbled under his breath.

An amused brow rose, "Is that so?" He all but purred. A gauntleted hand took hold of Galmar's, squeezing lightly as Ulfric's hot breath whispered against his ear, "I seem to recall my fantasies have served you well before, my little bear."

Suddenly, Galmar didn't feel so chilled by the rain. His cheeks and ears burned as his hand clenched into a fist, "Ulfric, now's not the time for this, we need to plan, if the men see..." he growled in hushed whispers, then narrowed his eyes when it only caused his jarl's smile to broaden.

He could see it in his eyes, Ulfric was having the time of his life. The devious smirk, complemented by a drenched mane, the impish man wanted _something_, and wasn't going to leave without it. The Bear of Markarth always gets what he wants, after all.

"Come now, my little bear. We're getting older, and we won't be able to do this forever," He murmured as he took hold of Galmar's arms, and spun him, so that he was trapped between the table and his jarl. Ulfric grinned as he took hold of the other man's cloak, and gave it a swift tug, causing the bear helm to fall from the older Nord's head, the fur-coated steel clanking as it met the wooden table.

"Hey!" He objected with an irritated frown as his silver hair fell free from its restraints, resting just below his jaw. Before he could argue further, a pair of lips clashed against his own while Ulfric's hold on his grew tighter. Shocked by the otherwise steady man's excitement, Galmar attempted to take a step back, leaning against the table as he did so. The kiss was hungry, impatient, and filled with suppressed passion.

Chapped lips grinded over one another as Galmar's self control began to wane, as it often would. Ulfric could see the fire building behind his partner's icy eyes, the same blaze that he had known countless times before, and had added heat to Skyrim's frozen nights.

They pulled away for air, and Galmar panted as he stood back up. He eyed the other Nord with suspicion, though seemed to have no intentions of moving away from him. Instead of trying to maneuver out from his jarl's hold, he took a fist full of the shorter man's blonde mane, and pulled back, forcing Ulfric's head back. A laugh mixed with surprise and pain escaped from him, one Galmar had missed hearing during his months fighting his lover's war.

Galmar matched the laugh, a quiet, almost menacing sound, "You know," He breathed, "I'm starting to remember why I don't take you on raids. You're a distraction."

"Your favorite distraction," The jarl corrected before harsh lips met his own once again. The warrior was far rougher than Ulfric had been, never releasing his hold on the other man's hair. He began taking dominating steps forward, placing his knee between Ulfric's legs and causing their bodies to collide.

Galmar's free hand broke away from Ulfric's, and instead wrapped around the small of the other man's back, pulling him even closer in an almost possessive manner. It was as if he was worried someone, _something_, would rip his lover away.

The taller Nord bit down on his partner's lip, not quite hard enough to draw blood, though it sparked a groan from the royal. Moss green eyes met the cold steel gray of the old bear, who grinned. With a predatory smile mixed with lustful eyes, Galmar was as savage as ever, and the kingslayer thrived on it.

Ulfric ran a hand through the Nord's silver hair. It was fine, finer than one would expect, though as greasy as could be, with strands pointing in every direction but their intended. The wild hair fit his housecarl, he thought. It was as untamed as the man who donned it, and as rebellious and free as his mother country.

A strong piercing wind blew through the tent, reminding the two leaders of their situation. The map escaped the feeble hold from Galmar's helm, floating up, causing the inkwell to spill over the wood. The parchment danced in the wind, and Ulfric was quick to separate himself from his housecarl to catch it.

The gauntleted hand quickly clasped the parchment by the corner, causing another delighted smile to appear on Ulfric's face. He turned, and placed it back on the non-ink stained section of the table. Delicate hands folded the paper before placing a dagger upon it.

"Nice catch," Galmar mumbled as he wiped his lips of the remaining traces of saliva, "So," He smiled, "What brought that on?"

"The wind. Or were you not paying attention?"

"The kiss," Galmar's eye twitched. He was being elusive now, which was never a good sign. The last time he had been was shortly before they had invaded Whiterun, when the Jarl had sent a lone courier to deliver his axe, and refused to clearly state to the outlander the signifigance. It was unlike the jarl to have hidden agendas, and Galmar had found that only when he felt genuinely threatened would he evade questions as a rogue would a greathammer, "Something's bothering you, isn't it?"

"Of course not," The jarl shook his head as he ran a hand through his hair, slicking it back to its original style, in an attempt to make it appear as if it hadn't been manhandled.

"I'm not sure which one of us you're trying to convince," Galmar frowned as he took several steps toward the jarl, lowering his voice, "Ulfric, I'm not going to ask you again what's bothering you."

A heavy sigh escaped the Nord's lips, "It's that obvious, is it?"

"Not to most people," Galmar shrugged as he leaned on the table again, "But most people haven't gone through Oblivion on Nirn by your side. I have."

"I suppose that's true," The Nord smiled. It was unlike the grin he wore into the tent, this was a somber, sad smile, "Any one of us could die tomorrow, Galmar."

"Aye, and?" The warrior frowned, having grown accustomed to the idea, and surprised that his jarl hadn't. They had been soldiers for a long time, and he was surprised that the idea of death could possibly scare the younger man.

"My mother died when I was training in High Hrothgar, my father died when we were imprisoned, and I have no siblings," The Nord met Galmar's eyes evenly, "You are the closest thing to a family I have left, Galmar. When my father died, it was alone, without any family to even say they knew him well. If you are to fall tomorrow… I wanted to make damned sure you know you're not alone in this world."

Galmar smiled at his jarl, and placed a strong hand on his shoulder, "You almost sound like you expect me to keel over," He flicked his head to the side, "Those Imperials out there are common soldiers. We've killed a million of 'em."

"_We_ were common soldiers once, Galmar," Ulfric frowned.

"Me? Maybe. I don't think anything about you is common," His smile remained. True, he knew that there certainly was a threat to face, as there always was, and he knew that it was possible that the battle could be his last.

Galmar extended an arm, and the smile upon his face became a grin, "Besides, are we not the heroes in this fantasy of yours? The hero can't die before the story ends, it's bad storytelling." He pulled Ulfric closer to him, and rested his forehead against the jarl's , "I'll be fine, Ulfric. _We'll_ be fine, Talos preserve us. We'll kick those Imperials' asses, like we always do."

Ulfric couldn't help but snort at the older man's language, "Galmar," He began as his moss eyes met those of his housecarl, "You have absolutely no sense of dramatic moment."

"Eh, what can I say? We can't all be broody royals." He responded with a husky chuckle. Galmar stepped away from the future High King, and eyed the map, "Hm, you really are distracting," He mused as he lifted the dagger, and took hold of their map.

"Now, since you like the rain so much, I think I'll let _you_ go outside and explain this nightmare of a battle plan to the men," He forced the parchment into Ulfric's hand, and turned, headed toward the bedroll that rested in the corner of the tent, "And after that, go to bed. We need you awake tomorrow."

"Yes, sir." Ulfric couldn't help but spare the man one last smile before rising to his feet.

"Good," Galmar muttered as he laid down, "And do us all a favor: try to fake some confidence while you're out there." As he lay, waves of relief flooded the man's senses. Finally, a moment of rest. The weary soldier's body practically collapsed, refusing to allow the exhausted man to rise to his feet again that night, no matter what the prize may be.

The housecarl watched Ulfric leave the tent as he settled down, and forced his eyes to stay open, if only for a little longer. He could see the men, how they all reacted to their leader, their High King coming to address them. Their eyes were filled with respect and admiration, even the elf's.

Galmar could see them leaning in as Ulfric spoke, hanging on his every word. The Nordic man had their complete, undivided attention, as a man of his standing should. The Bear of Markarth, veteran of the Great War, a surviving prisoner of war, and a man who was willing to risk everything for the sake of Skyrim and her people.

There was no smile in Ulfric's voice. No silly, slightly bucktoothed grin. When Galmar looked into his eyes, he saw not the dreamer who would weave fantastical tales of glory. Instead, he saw the eyes of a king, one Galmar knew Ulfric always would be. His insecurities, his jesting nature, and sly intentions had been left at the door of the tent. In their place was a dour man, who alone balanced Skyrim on his shoulders.

The rain had stopped, he noticed, leaving the nightingales to sing, and the moonlight to shine down upon them, kissing the pale faces of their soldiers. Galmar was no fool. Even though the thunder had died, and the lightning had faded, deep within the old bear, he knew that the storm had not ended. He could feel it in his bones, it would rise after the fall, stronger than before, and hit harder than ever. It was merely brewing. He stared at his king, comrade and lover. The man who had cloaked himself in life's tempest, as if it were armor, and fought with the ferocity of the strongest gales.

As his eyes closed, basking in a much-needed rest, his thoughts drifted to the following day. Most importantly, just how he would brave the coming storm.


	2. Chapter 2

_"Ulfric, this is Galmar Stone-Fist. He was won the right to serve as your housecarl," The Bear of Eastmarch smiled pleasantly as he rested a hand on his son's shoulder. In the three months that his son had been in Windhelm, his father could only be grateful. It was an honor for his son to have been called to High Hrothgar, although when he saw his child at the gates, his old heart had nearly skipped a beat._

_ "Won the right?" Ulfric asked with a raised brow. The man standing before him was small, and donned light armor. Ulfric could safely say that he was at least a head taller than the man who was supposed to be protecting him, "And just how did he manage that? Not to look a gift horse in the mouth, but he doesn't exactly… Look like a warrior."_

_ A grin spread on the small Nord's face, "Lord, I'm no warrior, I am a barbarian."_

_ "A barbarian?" Ulfric repeated at he studied the man's body. He was small, there was no denying that. But what he lacked in height he seemed to make up for in muscle. His armor, kilted as it was, left parts of his legs exposed, and Ulfric could see the powerful muscles that rested in them, which seemed to match those in his arms. _

_ "So, barbarian, what's your weapon?"_

_ "Axe, two handed." The grin remained on the to-be housecarl's face, "Ask any of the arena fighters, I'm the best fighter you could ask for."_

_ "Galmar proved to be the strongest in a proving held in your honor," Ulfric's father explained, "It was held before you arrived, so he could be a surprise. He's spent the past few months learning how to act in his position." The jarl's smile faded slightly, "I figured he would be a good fit for you. He's a bit… Louder than you are, my boy. Perhaps you two can balance each other out."_

_ Ulfric looked back to the barbarian, and noticed the feral grin that had remained on his face. He took him in: His armor was simple leather and chainmail. While it had pauldrons, it was sleeveless, showing off the arms of its wearer. On both his boots and gauntlets, it looked as if they had bear claws on the tips. The prince couldn't help but wonder how practical it was, and how often the barbarian would cut himself while scratching his nose. Strapped to the man's back was the enormous weapon the agile man seemed to prefer, obviously shined recently in an attempt to impress the prince._

_ "Light armor and a two handed weapon isn't the traditional choice," Ulfric commented, "Would you be able to give me a little demonstration of your fighting style? I find myself curious."_

_ "Of course he can," the jarl smiled, eager to flaunt the barbarian's skills. He looked to one of the guards, "Guardsman, please, help Galmar with this demonstration, will you?"_

_ Though she complied, the guardswoman tensed. She stepped forward, eyeing the arena fighter warily, "What would you like me to do, my jarl?" she asked hesitantly._

_ "Spar with him, of course," he answered, "And don't hold back, Galmar can take anything you throw at him, I'm sure of it."_

_ Ulfric watched as Galmar turned to the woman, and retrieved his axe from behind him, "Come on, woman, I'll even give you the first strike," he said almost mockingly._

_ Under expectant eyes, the guardswoman unsheathed her own weapon, and charged at the Nord, letting out a cry as her blade swung through the air, right toward the man's chest._

_ Instead of meeting leather or the handle of Galmar's weapon, however, her momentum never stopped, her weapon tearing through the air, causing her to take a few steps forward. The barbarian, rather than blocking the attack, had sidestepped out of the way, and maneuvered to her rear. _

_ He treaded lightly, the prince observed. He moved much like a rogue would, with quick, silent steps rather than powerful stomps. He watched the man as his quickness earned him the ideal striking position behind the guardswoman. His rogue-like steps shifted as his weapon raised. His feet dug into the stone floors, becoming heavy and indomable. _

_ His weapon came swinging down, though instead of the sharpened edge heading toward her, it was the side of the blade. It quickly came in contact with the woman's rump, sending her forward a good few feet across the palace floor. There was no real injury on her, as Galmar had used the fat-end of his axe, though Ulfric had no doubt that she would have a bruise to compliment her wounded pride._

_ Galmar turned back to the jarl and his son, beaming at them as he bowed, as if he were an actor that had finished a scene._

_Looking at his proud, smiling face, Ulfric could see a scabbed wound crinkling on the little man's face. A cut just at the tip of the Nord's mouth that reached down to his jaw, half covered by loose brown hair._

_ "So, Galmar, you won my hand?" Ulfric asked, unsure if he was using the correct terminology. Having spent most of his life away from society, in a place where speaking was all but forbidden, he had only read of social interactions. He knew he had either asked the barbarian if he won a position, or an engagement. He smiled bashfully as the Nord let out an uncomfortable laugh, and knew it had been the latter. _

"_I, uh, I don't know about that," Galmar smiled, "But I'll be fighting with you, training with you until we're sent off to Cyrodiil. Getting into trouble with you, the works." He then crossed his arms, and nodded to the door, "Which reminds me, my first task is to escort you to the smith. You're getting your first axe today, M'lord."_

_The simple sentence made Ulfric's heart race, and a bright grin spread onto his face. Any reservations toward the barbarian were quickly dispersed as he nearly leapt to his side. He was quick to storm past him, however, "Then what are we still doing here?" he asked, eagerness obvious in his voice. Every true Nord had an axe at their hip, and soon, the prince would be no exception._

_Galmar let out a husky snicker as he followed his new lord, "Won't lie, I was getting antsy, anyway." _

_The aging jarl couldn't help but smile at the bluntness of his son's guardian. It seemed that even after he had gone through the obedience training, the taskmasters couldn't beat the spirit out of him. His hand reached to the Talos amulet around his neck, and his fingers gently rubbed against the metal, "Thank the Nine for small mercies…" he whispered as he walked back to his throne._

Ulfric was awakened by his housecarl, and groaned quietly as he sat up. He had forgotten how uncomfortable it was to sleep covered in steel plate. His eyes glanced up to the night skies, and noticed that it had begun to rain again.

He stood, and a dark furred cape fell from his form. He glanced at the cloak, and a smile found its way onto his lips. He looked back at Galmar as he picked it up off the ground, "Did you put this on me while I slept?"

The older Nord took it from his lord, and placed it back around his shoulders, "Couldn't let you get sick . Now, come on, the elf is going to start climbing soon."

Ulfric nodded and followed his housecarl. The ride to their position had been uneventful, to say the least. The wet ground caused their horses to move slowly for fear of slipping. They had arrived later than planned, and as a result had less time to prepare themselves for the coming battle. Ulfric had taken the time to sleep, as anxiety had kept him awake the night before. The delay made little difference, as the rain prevented most of the men from actually preparing. It was too wet to groom the horses, the rain would make any warpaint run, and they couldn't even oil their weapons without difficulty. A few of the men were sitting around, chewing on salted meats or sipping at their canteens. With no preparations to do, most of them found themselves anxious with the waiting period, and were doing anything to keep themselves amused.

Sitting atop a ledge of rock, Ulfric could see a shivering Bosmer staring at the fort. Since the trees were few and far between in the Pale, their camp had been made around a large pile of stones. Unlike the rest of the men, the elf didn't wear the traditional Stormcloak uniform. He wore simple black leather armor, fitting for a scout or sniper. However, around the man's chest was a dark blue sash, identifying him as a rebel.

The elf must have noticed them, as he quickly began making his way down to the pair. Ulfric had remembered speaking to the wiry man days prior. It wasn't often that they would see a foreigner in their ranks, after all, especially one of elven blood.

"Athraden, was it?" Ulfric asked, to which the little man nodded, "It's good to see you can still climb in this weather." he noted, and nodded to the fort, "You will be able to climb the tower, yes?"

"Without a problem," the Bosmer said with a wave of his hand. Ulfric had noticed that the little man had a habit of speaking with his hands. It was almost amusing to watch him speak, with all the movement that went into it, "It is too warm for the rain to freeze over, and I used to climb in storms as a pastime. Scaling the tower will be a simple task for this one."

"And you'll be able to shoot men down?" the jarl asked, a concerned frown on his face. The clouded night mixed with the rain did not do any favors for visibility.

The Bosmer grinned, showing off a feral set of sharp, carnivorous teeth, "You have clearly never seen a child of Valenwood hunt. Have faith in your little elf, yes? He will not disappoint; he will do as ordered, all you need worry about is yourselves."

" _Khi'ra an shurh _," Ulfric could only assume that the little man had wished them well in the strange, cat-like language of his. With that, the elf nodded respectfully to the two before pulling his hood up, and beginning to run toward the tower. Despite his speed, Ulfric found it difficult to keep his eye on the elf. He moved with an eerie silence through the tall spring grasses, cloaked in shadow.

"I don't like him," Galmar muttered as he watched him go, motioning for their men to ready themselves, "He's got enough bravado as the rest of the witch elves and talks like one of those rugs ." Galmar spat on the ground, to some it would look like he was simply clearing the rainwater from his lips. Others knew better.

"You don't have to like him. If he's as skilled as he leads on, he's useful to us," Ulfric responded as their men prepared to charge.

Two of the men were mounted atop war horses. The stallions snorted and dragged their hooves against the mud, as if counting. Their riders took hold of the steeds' manes to keep from pulling on their reigns anxiously. The rest of the soldiers were no better when it came to nerves, many of them fiddling with their armor or weapons, looking for something, anything to calm themselves.

Their mage seemed to be the only calm one, and even then, Ulfric was almost certain that it was a facade. She was glancing at a tome, likely trying to perfect a spell, and kept a straight face. Even though her seemingly collected stance, subtle movements alerted the jarl of her nerves: How quickly she would turn the page, how she was biting the inside of her cheeks, the constant shifting of her weight… Ulfric doubted that any solider was completely at ease before battle.

It was the waiting. The goddamned waiting that tortured every soldier, and Ulfric remembered it well. Seconds would drag on as dread-filled hours. Hours filled with vain attempts to remain still and silent, while knowing that in a matter of minutes, Gods know how many of their comrades could be in Sovngarde.

Ulfric could feel himself tensing in his armor. His heart seeming to have lept into the back of his throat. He couldn't speak, even if he wanted to. He had forgotten much of war during his years in the palace. The discomfort of armor, the feeling of sleeping on rocky, muddy ground, the death grip every soldier had to their weapon before the fight. It was horrifically thrilling.

He spared his housecarl a glance, though was hardly surprised when the pair of icy eyes stared back at him. A shaky grin found itself on the bearded man's face, "Ready?" he asked in a hushed tone.

Ulfric assumed that he had nodded, because before he knew it, battle cries had erupted from the raiding party. He ran, as always, next to Galmar. His face was sore, and he realized that he had been grinning with anticipation. Horses galloped past them, splashing mud onto their armor while their riders let out adrenaline fueled howls. The nimbler of their soldiers danced to the front of their jarl, avoiding obstacles with ease as they swiftly entered the fort after the riders.

The rain keeping the heavily armored warriors at a steady trot, Ulfric cursed under his breath when the ringing of bells and blowing of horns met his ears. The fort was aware of their presence before the bulk of their men could storm the gates, and were calling for reinforcements from within the fortress.

Bouncing nimbly from foot to foot, Galmar raced to the front of his lord, a grin spread across his face. The jarl could only watch as the older man sped into the fortress, axe in hand. Fresh-faced Imperial soldiers were ready to greet the rebels, shouting their own battle cries as they charged toward the troops.

Ulfric had seen Galmar flaunt his combat prowess on countless occasions, and nearly every time he couldn't help but admire the aging barbarian. Light on his feet, Galmar could evade most of the crude Imperial blows. In the same instance, he would then dig his feet into the ground and overpower them, delivering the fatal blow with ease. Swift, vigorous and powerful was the barbarian's style, with intense passion lying behind every swing of his axe.

A soldier came from behind the barbarian in an attempt to flank him and strike at his unguarded rear. Icy eyes met the attacker's for only a moment before Galmar sprung from the man's range, diving to the side, and rolling to the backside of his would-be opponent. Agility was quickly replaced with strength as the housecarl once again took his axe in both hands, and hauled the weapon's blade at the soldier with more power than one would expect from the grizzled Nord.

A third assaulter not far behind, Galmar attacked not with the head of his axe, but with the hilt, using it to crack down on the man's skull. When the soldier stumbled forward, the Nord was quick to thrust his knee into his jaw, effectively turning the man around. Instead of delivering the killing blow, the housecarl's eyes darted to the direction of the tower. They narrowed at the elven archer as he used the hilt of his axe to hook around the Imperial's neck, pulling him close to his own body. The Nord then spun them both, facing the tower, and grunted upon feeling the impact of a black shafted arrow.

Glancing down at the pierced chest of the unfortunate corpse, Galmar let it fall to the ground, and turned to face his jarl, "_Finally!_ I swear, all that steel makes you slower than a horker!" The old bear then looked toward the center of the fortress.

The fort was divided into two sections, one walled by stone and the other by wood, the only entrances were in the wooden side while the only doors in and out of the interior fortress were in the stone side. He could see that their cavalry had broken through to the stone-walled section, though more enemy troops were piling out of the small building on their own wood-walled area. They looked to be nothing more than common Auxiliary soldiers along with a few higher ranked men in the mix. More of a nuisance than an actual threat.

Where Galmar's armor was dripping with the blood of the fallen, Ulfric's protective steel was untouched . A smile appeared on the jarl's lips, and he nodded to the stone section, "Galmar," He called over the clashing of steel and pouring rain, "Why don't you go join the men on the other side, let me finish up here?" He suggested before a huff of laughter escaped him, "I could use a warm up."

Silver brows rose as the housecarl's expression grew skeptical, "You sure you want me to leave you alone, Ulfric?" He asked, "We could probably clear these legionnaires out faster together."

"They're just auxiliary soldiers," The jarl shook his head, his drenched hair slapping against his face, "The bulk of their troops are in the other section, now go." As the barbarian moved away, Ulfric called out to him once more, "And Galmar," a grin spread on the Bear of Markarth's lips, " Try not to get pegged with any arrows. Last thing I need is that elf missing and shooting _you_ next time."

A bark of laughter erupted from the older Nord, "Just Shout if you need me," Galmar smiled, as if exchanging a private joke with the man. He then turned, and began running through the splashing mud, leaving his jarl with a handful of men to deal with the remaining pests.

Ulfric charged in to do battle with the lesser soldiers, who seemed to eye him with the same mundane glares as they did the other rebels. It was easy to forget how few people outside of Skyrim knew the future High King's face. Steel coated feet dug into the mud as the former Greybeard made the first strike. Steel met leather, and slashed through the scout's uniform with ease, sending the man's lifeblood splattering over them both. He chuckled as he sprung back, ready for another attack.

A black shafted arrow flew past him as he nearly jumped into its path. It hissed against his ear as it traveled, clearly finding its mark by the pained grunt that followed. Ulfric turned and his eyes went wide. Connected to the arrow-pierced neck was another Imperial, likely trying to attack him from behind. '_Sloppy,_' he could almost hear Galmar growl at him. The jarl was rustier than he thought. He turned to the remaining Imperials, and managed to grin; they didn't need to know he was out of his element.

"Should I close my eyes?" he asked, vicious mockery dripping off of every word, "Would that even things out a little?"

There were only three Imperials left: What looked to be a hooded scout, and two heavily armored warriors, "One of you take the little one," Ulfric ordered as he began stepping toward the larger of the warriors, "The rest of you follow me."

The jarl charged; as his blade kissed the fellow warrior's, their steel sang piercing war songs that had once been only a memory. From the corner of his eye, Ulfric could see one of the soldiers rushing at the scout, who was making some strange movements with his arms. All the while, the other two Stormcloaks flanked the second Legionnaire. He turned back to his opponent, and stared into his eyes for a moment. Despite the rank and came with his armor, the former Greybeard could see youth in the soldier's features: he was just barely a man, fresh from a war-filled childhood.

The laughter of his men, and clanking of armor could only mean that the flanking pair had killed their target. It wasn't surprising. The Bear of Markarth beamed at his own opponent, "You'd think the Emperor's dogs would be better trained, eh?"

Ulfric's smile quickly fell. Despite his mockery, he didn't seem to have the Imperial's attention, instead, the man was staring at the hooded scout, who was still standing for some reason or another. Taking advantage of the other man's divided attention, Ulfric shoved his boot into the man's torso, knocking him to the ground, "It's polite to look at someone when they speak to you."

Rather than respond, the heavily armored Legionnaire did something the Nord honestly didn't expect: he stood up, and began running away. Something was wrong. The Empire surely wasn't what it used to be, but weak as it might have become, it would _never_ allow for cowardly men to take on high ranks.

The hairs on Ulfric's neck were standing straight up, and he could feel goosebumps rising under his armor. He frowned. He _knew_ this sensation, but not from battle. He could feel his skin crawl and prickle, almost with anticipation for something that was yet to come, waiting for it to strike. Time stopped, if only for a moment. An unnatural silence overcame the battlefield, and the jarl turned to the Imperial scout. The little man's arms were still waving, though something was _happening_. The tips of the man's fingers began to spark to life, crackling and flickering like a lightning storm.

Ulfric's eyes went wide upon realizing what was about to happen.

The Nord dove to the ground before a deafening blast and blinding light numbed his senses. He pinned himself to the ground, helpless in a temporarily dark and silent world. He must have screamed, because his mouth soon tasted like rotten eggs and sand. He coughed, trying to rid his mouth from such a foul taste, but when he inhaled, more dust flew down his windpipe. No. It wasn't dust .

His sight returned in a matter of seconds, though it may as well had been years. The rain-soaked grass was covered in pale ashes, and Ulfric could make out what had once been an axe lying in the acrid-smelling field. The men, who had been laughing and cheering only seconds prior, were nowhere to be found, though looking back down at the powdered ground, Ulfric had a fairly clear idea as to what had happened to them. Lightning spells were known to incinerate its victims, after all.

Shakily, Ulfric rose to his feet once again. Dazed and alone, he began running toward the other side of the fortress. He _needed_ to get away from the mage; even he was not so bold as to face such a master alone.

The world was spinning, and the battle cries sounded distant, as if he were not on the battlefield, but watching it from the bottom of a lake. One thing called his attention back to the physical world: The hairs on the back of his neck began to rise again.

Waves of panic were quick to strike through Ulfric's body, which seemed to have developed a mind of its own. He was sprinting, and yet he didn't even notice. The spinning world was flying from under his feet, disorienting him further. One thing remained clear to him, however. He needed to get to Galmar.

The ground gave way beneath him, and Ulfric fell once more. Instead of rough, dry powder, he fell on bloody mud. His face rose to what he could only hope was toward the rest of the battle. Faces weaved in and out of focus, becoming indistinguishable from one another. Waves of panic crashed against him once more. Where was he? He needed to be there, somewhere!

Taking several deep breaths, Ulfric could feel adrenaline-fueled energy build up inside of him. His chest swelled, and he raised his head as rain water soaked his face, _**"GALMAR!"**_ His Voice boomed, sending tremors through the fortress. Distant screams met the jarl's ears, all of their voices he couldn't recognize.

His eyes snapped open once more in a vain attempt to locate his housecarl. The panic in his heart turned to grief. His skin began to tingle and twitch as the hairs under his armor stood up straight.

Storm magic engulfed Ulfric, spreading rapidly through his drenched suit of armor. His last thought before fading into a restful nothingness was that he was dead, and he was completely and utterly alone.


End file.
